


Cut Him Out in Little Stars

by Chronicler



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Addiction, Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Zayn, British Character, British English, British Slang, Butt Plugs, Caring, Character(s) of Color, Class Issues, Daddy Issues, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Disfigurement, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Use, Drugs, Eating Disorders, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Fire, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Marking, Mental Health Issues, Muslim Character, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Pansexual Character, Past Relationship(s), Pet Names, Piercings, Politics, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Promiscuity, Prostate Massage, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Queerphobia, Racism, Religion, Scars, Seduction, Self-Harm, Smoking, Sunsets, Tattoos, Terrorism, Top Liam, Violence, abusive language, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:38:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam is an ex-firefighter turned bodyguard, scarred inside and out. </p><p>Zayn is the troubled son of a high-profile politician.</p><p>Hired to protect Zayn from terrorist threats, Liam finds that Zayn's biggest danger is himself.</p><p>Will Liam be able to keep them both safe, and will they be able to find a way to be together, despite their own demons and opposition from those around them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut Him Out in Little Stars

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a story with a plot, my first story set over more than one night, and my first Original Characters. I wrote it before "I'll take care of you," but I was nervous about posting it. Plus it took a lot of editing.
> 
> Any feedback would be very gratefully received!
> 
> For Mayra, based on her prompt.
> 
> Thank you for beta reading Mitelia, Vanessa, Kayla, Brittany, Lini, Nicki, Kelsey, Aimee, & Courtney
> 
> There are some things in this story that could be triggery, but I don't want to give too many spoilers, or give the ending away.
> 
> The main songs I listened to while writing it were "How to save a life" by The Frey, which isn't a terribly Ziam song, and "Wicked Games" by The Weeknd, which is.
> 
> I partly wrote this because of all the bullshit Zayn's been put through, the things that people have said that have hurt him. But I didn't want to just write him as a victim. I hope I achieved what I set out to, I don't know if I did, I have a lot to learn still, but I worked really hard on it.
> 
> 4.11.14 replaced with new edit.
> 
> Cookiee has very kindly translated this story into Russian ~ http://ficbook.net/readfic/2333740
> 
> The very talented Kris/Kris Doodles/Twistericecream has kindly drawn my favourite scene from the story. Thank you so much. I will add it below.

_“When he shall die,_  
_Take him and cut him out in little stars,_  
_And he will make the face of heaven so fine_  
_That all the world will be in love with night_  
_And pay no worship to the garish sun _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _.”_____  
____

_~ William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Liam fought against the panic that rose up with the bile in his throat, as he wiped futilely at his visor with gloved hands; they felt clumsy and useless – he ached for the sensation of touch to help him find his way around. His senses were almost worthless now; he could barely see, could only hear the fury of the fire, the crackle and crash as the building around him was eaten alive by the flames. Someone was screaming – the sound muffled by his helmet, so he didn’t think it was himself.

He and the rest of his crew had already gotten most of the residents out of the block of flats – left them coated in shock and soot on the pavement – but there were people still inside that they had begged them to go back for. The first few floors had already been searched – with no more signs of life – and he had lost sight of his colleague after she’d pointed to the floor above. The disembodied voice over his radio had told him to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to go.

“ _Liam!_ ” A manic voice – a man, but he couldn’t tell who – reached him through the thick air. Hands grasped at him, pulling him backwards.

“No! I can still –” he fell silent as he managed to wrench himself free and stumbled forward. He made it to the top of the next flight of stairs as the ceiling collapsed with a thundering rip, crashing down on him. He crumpled to the ground with a heavy thudding pain, a beam landing across the back of his legs. An icy stillness shocked the nerves along his arm as a heavy, burning hot shard of debris ripped through the thick protective barrier of his uniform, slicing it open along with the flesh beneath.

 _Too late, too late, too late_ , he told himself silently. Too late for them, too late for himself. The shrill alarm attached to the almost depleted air canister on his back activated its distress signal as he was no longer moving. Grasping at his mask in panic with the one arm he could still use, he ripped it off along with his helmet and hood. The acrid smoke flooded into his lungs and scratched at his eyes as tears leaked out unnoticed, more from the smoke than distress; he felt mostly anger at his own failure, then confusion overwhelmed him.

As he gave up, a form emerged suddenly from the fog – he couldn’t identify them, all he could make out were boots, level with his eyes. Though, even if he could have moved his head to look up, and even if the air above him wasn’t obscured, his crew all looked the same in their black, modern day armour. Fresh pain surged through him at the jolt to his body as the weight was pulled from his legs and he was slung over the figure’s shoulder.

He tried to struggle, to tell them to leave him and save the others – but the silence of their voices, their screams replaced with those of the flames, told him again that it was too late. As he was carried haltingly down the stairs and out of the building, the flames reached out to them, reluctant to relinquish their hold.

His rescuer seemed in distress himself as he staggered outside, and though he did his best to be gentle, Liam’s laboured breath was knocked out of him as he was lowered to the ground, the path gritty and unforgiving beneath him. He became distantly aware of the smell of his own burnt flesh and hair, as yelling overcame the sound of the flames. People came rushing over and milled around him. Someone kneeling by his side pressed a mask to his face: it covered his mouth and nose and he felt trapped again, but he was past struggling. Strong, capable hands lifted him up onto a stretcher. Their training was kicking in, but their voices were tight with barely controlled anxiety. The adrenalin made them harsh and their words broke brittle and unintelligible against his ears, his ability to comprehend having fled in defeat. He felt a vague recognition of the faces around him, as they loomed out of the burning darkness, but he couldn't seem to place anyone, couldn't focus, and it didn't seem to matter anymore.

He barely noticed the hands that urgently tended to him, as he gasped in mouthfuls of clean, oxygen rich air. He felt disconnected, even from his own body, as he calmed, looking up at the stars. They were icily reassuring in their distant indifference to the tragedy playing out beneath them, making him feel so small, his life brief and unimportant in comparison to their timeless certainty. Shock had settled over him like a veil, leaving him numb. He would be glad about that, if he could be. Then the blessed relief of blank nothingness overtook him, as he surrendered his consciousness, leaving the surrounding commotion to continue on without him.

~*~

A few months of gruelling physical therapy and counselling later, Liam found himself standing in front of a large, imposing house in a quiet and exclusive suburb on the Northern outskirts of the capital. He had needed to get away from Wolverhampton; he couldn’t even bring himself to walk into the part of town where the fire happened, couldn’t face the empty lot where the charred remains of the building had been demolished. And in the end, he had needed to escape his family too. He had been forced to stay with them during his recovery, and as much as he loved them, their cloying concern had become almost as suffocating as the smoke.

So he had gravitated to London – it was where the lost traditionally ran away to, after all – rented a small, cheap flat, used the last of his savings to complete a course in ‘close protection’ (for want of a better idea), and looked for work. Truth be told, he’d always liked the idea of saving someone – but without flames this time.

After his first few disastrous interviews, where he had alternated between silent fidgeting and candid honesty, he’d realised that people didn’t want to hear his sob story – to suspect he may become a burden to them. He’d known immediately after what happened that he couldn’t return to the fire service, and as his sick pay had now ended, he needed to make a better impression at this interview. He couldn’t go back: if he let himself sink into the security of his childhood home again, he didn’t think he would ever manage to leave – ever learn to be whole again.

His need for independence winning out over his nervousness, he told himself that he would be steady and confident this time – or at least do a better job of faking it. Going up to the large wrought iron gates, he pressed the intercom and waited. As a minute passed, then another, he checked his watch in case he had gotten the time wrong – but no, it was nine o’clock, as arranged. Just as he was considering turning to leave, a distant, lightly accented female voice crackled out into the crisp morning air.

“Can I help you?”

He cleared his throat and swallowed before answering, “Liam Payne – I’m here for the interview?”

There was no response, but the large gates slowly began to open with a grinding metallic creek. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided that was the only invitation he was going to get, so he took a deep steadying breath then made his way up the driveway, the gravel crunching ominously under his feet.

The front door seemed designed to intimidate: large and painted a glossy black, with an ornate brass knocker in the shape of an unnecessarily angry lion. The house was Victorian he’d guess, not that he was an expert on such things.

He was glad he was wearing his best suit at least, trying to make a good impression, to project an aura of capable dependability – something he wasn’t quite sure he possessed anymore. But he smoothed his hands down his jacket, straightened his tie, and ran his fingers through his hair to force it back into some semblance of order, in a futile fight against the cold autumn wind. Then he steeled himself, determined to make a success of this.

He was wondering if he should announce his presence by way of the guarding lion, when the door swung open to reveal a mature, sombre woman, who radiated indifference to his presence. After wasting his most ingratiating smile on her, and embarrassingly stuttering out an introduction, she turned out to be the housekeeper, Ms Kalil, who quickly led him down a corridor and deposited him in an office, telling him to take a seat, then leaving him to wait.

The room was big and at first glance screamed old money, with its imposing antique mahogany desk and burgundy leather chairs the colour of aged wine. Though, the books lined in orderly formation along the shelves looked more for show than a love of literature, too old and neatly regimented to be there for pleasure, no trashy blockbusters disrupting the perfect image of studious respectability. And the paintings on the wall seemed like those in a hotel room – also just for show. So he looked out of the window instead, the well-tended garden still clinging to its last surge of life before it lay dormant for the winter.

He ran his hand over his right cheek as he tried not to think; the skin covering his cheekbone was marred and ridged where the fire had scored a last victory as he was rescued, licking its persistent, destructive kiss against his flesh (though he was just relieved to have kept his sight). Then down to his chin, the scratch of his short beard comforting as he ruffled through it with his fingers. He wondered if he should have shaved, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. At almost thirty, scarred inside and out, people assured him he was still handsome and occasionally gave him admiring glances, but he was no longer a pretty young thing.

He was starting to wonder if they had forgotten him, when the door opened and a man a little older than himself entered. He had dark hair and guarded eyes, was attractive in an officious way, and dressed in an expensive tailored suit. He looked determined and professional – considerably smaller and softer than Liam, but obviously secure in his position. Liam stood and shook his hand, taking his seat again as the man took his behind the desk, straightening out the small stack of documents in front of him and picking up the top one.

There were brief introductions – the man’s name was Mr Rykiel, no first name offered, and he was apparently Mr Malik’s campaign manager, though he seemed to organise everything.

“You have heard of Mr Malik, I take it?” His prospective employer asked him expectantly.

Liam paused, wondering how honest he should be, before deciding that as he was a terrible liar, there was no point even trying. “Not really…” the other man looked slightly scandalised, and Liam hurried on, “I haven’t been following the news – it’s usually depressing.”

The man looked over the paper in his hand, “Yes, I see that you have struggled since the… ‘incident'. There were deaths: a female firefighter, and three residents, one of them a child. Did the antidepressants help?” He looked up, his eyebrows slightly raised as he awaited an answer.

Liam was too stunned to reply. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, his throat had constricted painfully as his hands clenched into fists. He wanted to get up and leave, but the man seemed to not realise what he’d done, or perhaps he just didn’t care.

“How do you know all that?” He managed to force out tightly after the tense silence had stretched on far too long.

“You are here to interview for a very… delicate position. Naturally we had to do a thorough background check to give you security clearance. You must have expected that?”

He realised then that he should have, but he hadn’t, and he felt like a fool. He breathed in and out slowly, counting out each inhale and exhale as his therapist had taught him, dampening down the fight or flight response that made him want to snap the smug man in front of him in half. “I don’t think my medications are any of your business.” His words came out laced with a subtle threat.

“They are very much my business. I have been given the responsibility of finding a bodyguard with whom to entrust Mr Malik’s son; I need to be confident that you are up to the task.” He showed no sign of being at all perturbed by Liam’s discomfort. “I see that you haven’t done this kind of work before, but you have all the necessary training, and have no family commitments so will be available whenever needed.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than to Liam, and accepting his silence as confirmation, until he asked, “Why do you want this job?”

Too shocked by his life being laid bare to hold back, he gave another honest answer, “I need the money, and something to do… but mostly I need to feel useful – I like protecting people. When I can.” His final words held bitter self-recrimination, his past failure hanging heavily in the air around them.

The other man nodded as he read the rest of the document, and Liam wondered what the fuck else it said. He hated the thought of his life being reduced to stark paragraphs on a page, wrapped up neatly with no context or chance for him to explain. He wanted to snatch it away and burn it – which he realised the irony of.

“How much did the agency tell you about what your role would be? Should I deem you suitable, of course,” the man continued, not looking up from his reading, as he moved onto the next page.

“Not much.” They had told him how well it paid, and that had seemed enough at the time, though he was less sure now.

The man finally finished, putting down his papers and studying Liam with unnerving scrutiny. “There have been threats made against Mr Malik – as a high profile Asian politician it is perhaps only to be expected. His daughters are away at boarding school and university, his wife is currently staying at their home in Yorkshire, and the official security services are watching the house here and escorting Mr Malik everywhere.” Liam thought back to the security he had noticed outside, as the man continued, “However, it would look bad to spend public money to take his son to… the kind of places that he frequents… and we do not want public records of his activities. We need someone that we can trust. He is safe when he is here, but you would need to accompany him at all times when he leaves the house, day or night, at least until the election, in a little over two months. Also…” he paused, as if searching for the right words, his confidence wavering momentarily, “we need… we need for you to keep him out of trouble, and out of the press, as well as keeping him safe.”

Liam suspected that the man’s final words reflected his order of priorities, and he saw the opportunity to gain back some of the upper hand. “I’m confused – am I meant to be protecting him, or his father’s reputation?”

The man gave a tight-lipped smile, a steely look in his eyes. “Both.”

Liam nodded. “Alright.”

With a brisk, single nod of his head, the man rose. “Good. Then you are hired; you can start immediately, I really do not have time to deal with him myself. There are a couple of things for you to sign: your contract and a non-disclosure agreement.” He retrieved more papers from the pile, placed a silver pen on top, and slid them across the polished wood to Liam.

The pages were dense with words: technical legal jargon was the impression he got as he glanced over the top page. He knew it would take him hours to make sense of them, and his host was already waiting expectantly. Hesitating for a moment, then deciding he wasn’t in a position to quibble, didn’t want to look a fool, and that they would only contain standard clauses, he picked up the pen and signed each page next to the crosses that had been added in hurried-looking blue ink.

Then he stood uncertainly, his brow creasing as he asked, “That’s it?”

The man turned back to him from the doorway. “That wasn’t enough for you? You want more?”

 _It was far too much_ , he wanted to say, but he just shook his head, glaring at the man’s back as he led Liam along the corridor and up a wide staircase with sculpted white balustrades. At the top a stained glass window littered the plush white carpet with a rainbow of patterned light.

The man stopped in front of what was presumably one of the house’s numerous bedrooms, knocking on the door with quiet decorum, getting steadily louder and more insistent as he was ignored. Eventually he gave a perturbed sigh, then called out, “Zayn? I am going to knock until you answer, so you may as well open up now!” He banged on the door a few more times to prove his point, until his knuckles must be sore and Liam wondered what it could have taken unnerve someone so in control.

The door suddenly flew open and the room’s occupant appeared, demanding to know, “What the fuck do you want? It’s barely dawn!” He directed this at Mr Rykiel, before noticing Liam by his side. “Arek, you brought me a present… I might forgive you.” A lazy smile spread over his lips as he licked them and looked Liam over with blatantly filthy intent – though Liam didn’t take it seriously, it was obvious that he was just doing it to get a rise out of them.

“No – I brought you a bodyguard.” Mr Rykiel, Arek, dealt his words like a winning hand of cards as he gave Zayn a look of ruthless determination.

The boy’s fiery anger quickly rose again, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me? I told you, no way man, I am not having a babysitter!”

Arek held up his hands, pulling back as he said, “I’m not doing this. I’ve hired him, he’s gonna follow you everywhere, there’s nothing you can do about it.” Liam noticed his perfectly correct pronunciation slipping to a less luxurious part of London as he got more annoyed. He turned to Liam and said, “He’s your problem now,” before he stalked away.

“You can fuck right off too.” Zayn looked Liam in the eye with a lift of his chin as he said it, then slammed the door in his face.

Liam felt like he had just been swept into the centre of a tornado then deposited back onto the earth to find his bearings alone. It had all happened so fast, though the strong impression the boy had made lingered: even angry and belligerent he was beautiful, Liam couldn’t deny that. Wearing nothing but precariously low riding tracksuit bottoms, the drawstring hanging untied, displaying his small, too pale, too thin form, skin stretched taut over muscle and sinew, etched with an intricate pattern of tattoos. He looked like he’d had a rough night: rumpled and dishevelled, straight out of bed, his hair sticking out at all angles and creases from his pillow lining his cheek. His brief appearance had been shocking, and his exit dramatic.

Liam wasn’t sure what to do next, but he did know he was going to have to take charge of the situation and show that he wouldn’t give up easily. Sitting down on the ground opposite the door, with his legs stretched out in front of him, he pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket, put in his earplugs to listen to some hopefully calming music, and settled in to wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait. Hours passed, and he started to wonder if he should break the door down to check on the boy – and just for something to do, honestly, though the boy had probably just gone back to sleep. He got up a few times and paced the corridor before settling back down.

Then, finally, the door opened, and Liam pulled out his earplugs as he took in the sight. Zayn looked different – he was fully clothed for one thing, freshly showered and he obviously took pride in his appearance. He was pampered and well groomed, his resolutely black clothes betraying the faux rips and perfectly contrived street fashion of the desolate wealthy attempting to slum it. He had an assortment of studs in each ear, and two balls marked the ends of a piercing hooked through an eyebrow. He wore an array of silver necklaces and rings, which could either have sentimental meaning or just be for effect, probably some of each. Black eyeliner had been applied with an experienced hand, and a shocking blond streak – visible now that it was styled improbably high – graced the centre of his jet-black hair. His stubble had been left just the right length to say _I try, but not too hard_. He was, admittedly, breathtaking, both naturally and by careful design – which Liam quickly categorised as an irrelevant distraction and pushed aside.

“I can’t believe you’re still here.” Zayn seemed both displeased and impressed.

He clambered to his feet, shrugging as he stretched out his arms with a grunt, his well-defined chest pushing forward. His legs were a little numb from sitting on the ground too long and started to ache as the feeling returned. “I figure being a bodyguard is like being a fireman: ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent terror. This was the boredom.” He let his frustration show in his voice.

“And I’m the terror.” Zayn grinned, a wicked but charmingly playful glint in his eyes. It faded as his gaze settled on Liam’s scar, and he bit his lip, looking young and deflated. “Sorry man, that was thoughtless.”

Liam shrugged again as he said, “S’okay,” taking it as a sign of progress. It suddenly occurred to him that they hadn’t exactly been formally introduced. “I’m…” he paused, unsure just how formal he should be in his new role, which was more complex than he was used to, “Mr Payne, by the way.” He winced slightly at how awkward he sounded, before adding, “But you can call me Liam, if you want?”

“Liam, definitely.” Zayn pursed his lips a little after he answered, trying to hide his amusement at Liam’s discomfort, before he added, “I could make us breakfast, if you’re hungry?” seeming to at least want to make amends for earlier.

“Starving – but it’ll be a very late lunch.” He gave Zayn a look of mock disapproval, which earned him a smile, before the boy led him downstairs to the kitchen.

Surprisingly, he was a pretty good cook, presenting Liam with a decent omelette. They ate sitting across from each other at the small, informal table in the kitchen, not the ostentatious dining room they had passed on the way. Though he noticed that while he finished everything on his plate, Zayn barely picked at his food, contenting himself with coffee and painkillers.

Their conversation was easy, which came as a relief: music, movies, comic books, travelling – even if Zayn did look a little taken aback at Liam’s abysmal geography skills, and was clearly bored the second Liam mentioned sport. At almost twenty, Zayn seemed somewhat aimless; Liam imagined that was nothing unusual for the idle rich – though he had been working full time in a factory by that age. But Zayn was charming, with an endearingly dorky laugh, and the unerring ability to say the most shocking things as though they were an everyday occurrence, which they perhaps were for him.

He began to think that maybe this job wasn’t going to be such a headache after all. That his easy manner was winning over Zayn’s albeit reluctant compliance, now that he was well rested, vaguely sober, and his hangover was starting to ease.

After disappearing again for a while, and leaving Liam to subtly explore the downstairs of the house, Zayn reappeared and announced that they were going shopping. He took Zayn to the street outside where he had left his embarrassingly ordinary, second-hand car. He’d picked it up cheap as it was in dire need of a paint job. Zayn looked it over with barely concealed disdain, before taking Liam back up the drive to a large garage that housed, among other vehicles, an impressive, classic Bentley, which Zayn apparently owned even though he couldn’t drive.

“So really, this is like having my own personal chauffeur?” Zayn mused speculatively as Liam grudgingly admired the sleek black car.

“I’m not a –” he started, before giving up wearily with a sigh, “fine, yes, that’s exactly what I am. Where can I take you, Sir?” He doffed an imaginary cap as he held the car door open for a pleased looking Zayn.

They ended up taking a tour of some of the finest boutiques in the West End. Liam sat awkwardly on the fancy chairs near the changing rooms as Zayn was fussed over by calculating sales assistants who would put up with almost anything to get their commissions. They gave Liam assessing looks, then kept glancing over at him questioningly. He suspected some thought he was Zayn’s sugar daddy, buying his boy’s affections, which couldn't be further from the truth. Others, he felt were looking down on his suit, which he now realised was cheap and, worst of all sins, _off the rack_. He felt too big and muscle bound, ungainly in this refined world of high fashion, that gloried in merely skimming the surface of life. The Black Country edge to his Midlands accent set him apart even further, though Zayn had a Northern accent that Liam hoped to ask him about sometime.

Soon there was a haphazardly piled stack of boxes and bags in the boot of the car – all charged to Zayn’s father’s credit card no doubt – and they sat in a stylishly bohemian cafe drinking late afternoon tea. Though, in reality it was already early evening – Zayn’s grasp of time seemed tenuous at best. A pleasant golden glow bathed them through the window, lending a nostalgic sepia tint to their surroundings, as the sun dipped low on the horizon beyond the thickly crowded grey buildings.

Zayn excused himself to use the men’s room; Liam went in first to check it was clear, then came back to their table, which gave him a clear view of all the doors. While he waited he ate some of the ridiculously old-fashioned scones with strawberry jam and cream, which he realised were served there as a half-mocking-retro-affectation, but reminded him of lazy Sunday afternoons visiting his Gran’s house as a child. He felt quite relaxed, this world so different to the one he’d left behind – it made it easier to forget everything for a little while, to escape into the fantasy that this was his life.

But the minutes dragged on, and on, and he finished his tea, watching as the steam slowly vanished from Zayn’s and a broken film formed on the surface, next to his untouched food on its fine bone china saucer. It dawned on him, reluctantly, that he was a fucking idiot and Zayn wasn’t coming back – had lulled him into a false sense of security and done a runner.

He rushed to check anyway, just in case anything had happened to the boy, which he almost regretfully knew was unlikely. The men’s room was small, with just one toilet and sink, and everything looked neat and undisturbed. At the far end was a window with a single pane of glass, which was now open wide. He was a few inches taller than Zayn, plus a few inches broader, and he wasn’t going to try fit through the window. Instead he went back into the main part of the café and found a fire escape that also opened out into the street behind. He emerged onto the crowded path, looking around futilely as black cabs drove by touting for fares.

Zayn was smart if nothing else – he must have chosen this place deliberately; he complimented the boy silently as he cursed out loud, leaning back against the limestone wall of the old building. It had stood in the capital for centuries and would stand for centuries more, without ever caring about the countless stories playing out within and around it.

Feeling stifled, not used to spending all day in formal attire, he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, figuring it was a little late to worry about making a good first impression. Then he took out his phone and paused for a moment, hating to admit failure, before dialling the number that had been given to him by the agency in case he’d needed to rearrange the job interview. He was shocked to realise it had only been that morning, though it felt like another life. Arek answered after a few rings, and Liam immediately admitted, “I’ve lost him.”

“ _Shit_. You didn’t even last one _fucking_ day.”

Liam had to admit a grudging admiration for Zayn’s ability to ruffle the man’s impeccably preened feathers. “Know where he might be?” he asked wearily.

“There’s a few pubs and nightclubs he goes to a lot – I don’t know why, they’re sleazy and downmarket… Okay, I know exactly why,” Arek conceded, then rattled off a list of their pretentiously contrived names. Liam wrote them down as quickly as he could, still having to risk the annoyed man’s further ire by getting him to repeat the last few. “Find him, and physically drag him home if you have to,” he instructed, then he hung up without saying goodbye.

Liam sighed as he looked up directions to the pubs and clubs on his phone before driving to the nearest one.

He had done his fair share of clubbing in his life – drunken nights back home with his friends – but London nightlife was in another league. The noise, heat, and bustle were a little overwhelming, even though it was still relatively early. The restaurants and pubs were packed, and the nightclubs started to open as he searched. He found staff at the first few places he tried, and asked if they had seen Zayn. They predictably all knew who he was, and though reluctant to answer, Liam applied charm and intimidation where necessary to find that Zayn had been seen at a couple, then left, and hadn’t been seen at the others. He ended up across town in Soho, where most of the names on the list were located. Driving in London – and worse finding somewhere to park – was a slow business, and he ended up walking as the evening wore on and night fell.

Anything Goes, the next nightclub on the list, was smaller and more discreet, the music sensual and pounding through the entrance. The inside looked darker than the others, hints of coloured lights peeking through the inner door as people emerged through it, their laughter and unsteadiness looked to be caused more by alcohol than the insistent rhythm. It was harder to talk his way in this time: they kept saying it was members only, and he kept saying he didn’t give a fuck. In the end he told them he was going in to find his charge, they could call the fucking police if they wanted to, and he hoped they enjoyed being raided. They gave up at that point and left him to it.

After a few minutes searching through the throng of bodies writhing against each other, he spotted Zayn in the middle of it all. He stood watching, spellbound, as Zayn swayed to the music; he looked blissful, from what Liam could see of his profile.

It was hard to get a clear view of him though, sandwiched as he was between two other dancers (though that hardly seemed the right word for what they were doing). A lovely young woman was in front of him with her breasts pressed up against his chest, her dress leaving little to the imagination, and her dark skin contrasting with Zayn’s pallor as she pulled him into a kiss. He slid his hands around her waist, as a tall young man with blond curls pushed up behind him, rubbing himself obscenely against Zayn’s denim clad ass, licking and biting his neck. Breaking the kiss, Zayn turned his head, and reaching over his shoulder he threaded his fingers through the man’s hair, arching his back as he pulled him forward until their lips met. The woman watched with a satisfied smile, her hands exploring everything she could reach.

It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen outside of porn – hell, including porn.

He was transfixed by the sight, and it hit him hard how sexy and uninhibited Zayn was, and how he’d been trying so determinedly all day not to notice. But Zayn was his to protect, his responsibility, and he told himself that was why he felt a stab of territorial fury as he pushed his way to the blatant threesome to break it up, grabbing Zayn’s arm, and pulling him free.

“What the fuck!” Zayn wrenched out of Liam’s grip – with more strength and toughness than Liam had given him credit for – adding “Shit,” as he realised it was Liam who had found him.

“He’s with us.” The other man stupidly pushed Liam in the chest, trying to move him and not succeeding.

“Back the fuck off while you still can,” Liam ground out, though he was itching for an excuse to beat the shit out of him. He shoved his chest against the man who may have been a little taller, but was obviously not prepared to risk his pretty boy looks by taking on a real fighter.

Curly’s life may have gifted him a sense of entitlement, but he obviously realised he was punching above his weight. Holding up his hands he took a few steps back, joining the woman who had quickly lost interest and was already looking around for someone new to join them. “Fine, you can have him. Enjoy – he’s good, we’ve had him before,” he directed at Liam, the temptation to goad his brief rival apparently too great.

Liam fought hard to rise above the temptation to punch him, wanting to get Zayn out of there without causing even more of a scene. So grabbing his errant charge’s wrist, he dragged him away before he could object.

He didn’t want to take Zayn out the front way: there had been some bored paparazzi waiting there, hoping for a scoop, and Zayn looked wrecked. Instead he found a back exit that lead into a dingy alley, barely lit with a flickering streetlight at the far end, and still damp with puddles from that morning’s rain.

Once they were outside, Zayn shook off Liam’s hold and turned on him. He was vibrating with unrestrained energy, his pupils so dilated as he stared up at Liam that his eyes were almost black. He looked wrung out and wired. “I’m not saying the hulk act isn't, like, _hot as fuck_ , because it totally is – but now they’re all gonna think you’re a fucking bear and I’m your twink.”

“Are you high?” He felt himself scowl as he said it, as though he were in a position to judge anyone. He knew he wasn’t, especially considering the hard liquor he drank alone in his flat every night.

“Maybe.” Zayn gave him an enticing smile, swaying a little in the dim yellow light as it blinked over them. The sharp lines of his cheekbones were highlighted by each pulse, casting his cheeks into shadow. It made him look even more finely sculpted, like a marble statue that had fallen on hard times.

The day had been long and wearing for Liam, and he’d had enough. Pushing his hands between Zayn’s open shirt, he grabbed his t-shirt in his fists, and pushed him up against the rough red bricks of the wall, his face inches from Zayn’s. “This isn’t a fucking game! I know you’re smarter than me, and younger, richer, better looking…” his voice trailed off and he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. His anger seeped away to be replaced with a weary longing as he realised how true all of that was. “But I’m just here to take care of you, and you’re gonna let me.” He pushed harder against Zayn with his fists as he said it, trying to drill it into him.

Apparently, he realised a moment too late, there is sometimes a very fine line between violence and sex. Their bodies were pushed against each other, and adrenaline coursed through Liam’s veins as Zayn grabbed the back of his neck, his hand warm and firm as he brought their lips together. There was no finesse to it, just a clash of mouths, sudden and desperate. Zayn surged up against him, rising onto his toes to reach Liam’s height and push himself against him with a relieved moan – showing that he was already half-hard from what he had been doing in the club. He tasted of cigarettes and the burn of alcohol, yet he still seemed out of reach.

Liam found himself responding: as the boy willingly surrendered control, Liam pushed back against him and fucked into his mouth with his tongue, wanting more so much it almost hurt.

“Fuck,” Liam muttered as he came to his senses and pulled back before he did something really dumb – like getting his client to suck him off in a dirty alleyway. He pushed his hands flat against Zayn’s chest to calm him, as the boy tried to recapture his lips. Closing his eyes and resting their foreheads together, he told him breathlessly, “I’m taking you home now, where you’re safe.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Even without looking at him, Liam could hear the provocative grin in Zayn’s voice as he responded, could feel the warm breath against his lips.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from Zayn, then placed a hand against the small of his back as he guided him out to the street, heading to where he’d parked, out of sight of any cameras. The boy’s waist felt so slender, almost delicate – though his subtle curves weren’t soft, he felt more like he was moulded from tempered glass, and could only withstand so much before he shattered.

They managed to get to Liam’s car unseen, and after a thankfully quiet and uneventful drive back to Zayn’s house – the boy too out of it to cause any more trouble – they walked up to the gate and Liam pressed the buzzer.

“So, you wanna come up to my room?” Zayn asked flirtatiously as they waited, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips, expectation radiating from him as he stepped close and ran a hand down Liam’s chest.

“No,” Liam sighed out, not meeting Zayn’s eyes as he gently but firmly pushed him away.

“Wait – you’re seriously just gonna drop me off at home, and leave me? Treat me like a _fucking_ child?” Anger flared in his voice as he realised that Liam meant it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Zayn,” he said with forced calmness. Turning, he walked away, as Zayn called after him, “Fuck you too!”

He looked back when he reached his car and watched Zayn’s hunched figure through the iron bars of the now closing gates as he stormed up the driveway and slammed the door to the house behind him. Once he was satisfied that Zayn was safely inside, he drove home, wondering what the fuck he’d gotten himself into now.

~*~

With some trepidation, he went to work the next day as though nothing untoward had happened. He couldn’t see what else to do. Zayn’s car was still parked in the street, waiting for someone to return it to the garage. The housekeeper answered the intercom, let him through the gates, then met him at the door.

“Zayn has instructed me to inform you that he will not be leaving the house today. He will be spending all day in bed reading, so will not require your services. How productive of him,” she finished sardonically, before she disappeared back inside and closed the door.

He stood there for a moment, wondering what he was meant to do, before slowly making his way back to his car and driving home.

He spent the day working out and catching up on his emails; he didn't really want to, but his family would decide he had fallen apart again and come down to check on him if he didn’t reassure them that he was okay – even if he wasn’t.

He half worried that he was about to be fired, and so soon, but he didn’t hear anything so he assumed they were giving him another chance.

Most of all he tried not to think about Zayn – how his lips were soft but a little chapped, seeming too delicate, and how his needlessly long eyelashes had felt when they fluttered against Liam’s cheek as they kissed. If nothing else, he had always prided himself on being professional, and now he’d even failed at that.

He had a restless sleep that night, his dreams full of the vague sensation of a lithe body pressed against him, and dark eyes looking up at him, too yearning as they glinted in a flickering light that had no source. When he woke with a start, his dick was hard and aching; he winced as he checked the time: still only the early hours. He tried to sleep again, tried to slide back into blissful denial. But the restless desires that were plaguing him proved unavoidable. He gave in and quickly stroked himself through it: dry, too harsh and rough, glad of the edge of pain to alleviate the guilt as he let himself remember how it had felt, pushing Zayn’s pliant body against a wall.

~*~

Thankfully, the next day things slipped into some semblance of normality, and continued that way; Liam accompanied Zayn wherever he went, and hung around on his own the rest of the time. Zayn even left him a pile of comics in the kitchen (noticeably choosing ones that featured Liam’s favourite superheroes), which he was grateful for, and leafed through as he drank tea, ate biscuits, and figured he’d had worse jobs.

He was meant to compile a risk assessment and schedule for each day… And he did his best, though writing wasn’t really his forte, Zayn was always unpredictable, and no one ever asked to see them. So the pages ended up with, at best, a few barely legible notes scrawled across them.

Some days he would drive Zayn to see his friends, watching them talk and laugh together, while they ignored Liam’s existence. He suspected Zayn enjoyed that, treating Liam like an exotic pet, a new status symbol. He tried not to listen, but it was unavoidable really, and he learnt more about Zayn each day, though he still didn’t feel that he really had a handle on him. Nor did Zayn’s friends it seemed; Zayn never said much, and their relationships revolved around the best places to get laid and wasted.

He also drove Zayn to some of the seediest places he had ever seen: the kinds of dives where anyone brave enough to enter should have a bodyguard. Squats where he pretended not to see as Zayn bought drugs and fit a little too well into the underclass, and young women with haunted or dead eyes would offer them sex for money. It was always a relief to get Zayn out of there.

It wasn’t that Liam really disapproved of anything that Zayn did, he just worried. The boy seemed to be left to his own devices, and ran a little wild, but nothing Liam couldn’t find it in himself to ignore. And if there was one thing that Liam was good at, it was repressing how he felt. Though, that was always temporary – he always exploded in the end.

Although he witnessed Zayn being reckless, even self-destructive, he somehow managed to combine that with being neurotic at times. His fear of heights was obvious anywhere far from the ground. He also mentioned not being able to swim, but declined Liam’s offer to teach him, suggesting instead that they share a Jacuzzi, which Liam declined. When he left late at night, after Zayn had gone to bed, he’d look up at the boy’s window and there would always be dim light framing the curtains, so he assumed Zayn avoided the dark as well.

He suspected that Zayn was an enigma he could spend his whole life trying to solve and never quite manage it. The thought held far too much appeal.

Somehow they had ignored the kiss, letting it hang unspoken between them, and Liam began to wonder if Zayn had perhaps forgotten what happened once he sobered up. Until one evening as he was leaving, Zayn bit his bottom lip, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself as he said, “That first night… I shouldn’t have been angry because you didn’t wanna screw me. That was fucking wrong of me; I acted like a twat, I know that. I was just, like, embarrassed, and disappointed.” He seemed genuinely remorseful, before he added, “And _really_ fucking high,” continuing with an indifferent shrug, “and drunk. And horny. And –”

“Okay,” Liam stopped him, having heard enough. “It’s fine…” Realising that he wasn’t doing the kid any favours by letting him think he could get away with treating people like that, he amended, “No – it wasn’t fine, but I forgive you. Let’s just drop it.”

There were more nights at clubs, Liam clenching his jaw and his fists as he watched Zayn grinding on random men, women, and those that were harder to classify. Though he at least didn’t leave with any of them, letting Liam drive him home then leave him at the door. He sometimes wondered if the show was being put on for his benefit. There was a tension always present between them that he was trying to ignore. Though, alone at night, he gave in to his fantasies.

~*~

He was laying on his sofa watching TV one evening, comfortable in jeans and his favourite hoodie, when his phone rang. It was Ms Kalil, who never had given him a first name to call her – seeming to not want to encourage familiarity – and had never called him at home before. She seemed uncomfortable as she explained that although Zayn had given Liam the day off (claiming he wanted a day to himself at home), she thought he had better come in to work.

He pulled on a pair of worn work boots, a battered old leather jacket, and a beanie, then drove over. Ms Kalil let him in, only telling him that Zayn hadn’t left his room all day. She then left him to it (obviously not wanting to get involved), and he made his way upstairs to Zayn’s bedroom, which he’d never actually been inside before.

There was deafeningly loud music pouring out as he approached, but after a few attempts at banging on the door, Zayn finally called back, “What do you want?”

“That’s not much of a greeting,” he said to the impassive, solid wood.

“Liam?” Zayn’s voice was muffled, and also slurred a little, as he dragged out each syllable of Liam’s name the way he always did. It was as though he were savouring how it felt in his mouth. There was a pause, before the music was turned off and he heard the click of the lock. Zayn opened the door for him, still fastening the jeans he must have just pulled on, before staggering away and falling back onto his bed, leaving Liam to let himself in and close the door.

“You look different,” Zayn looked him over appraisingly from under heavy eyelids, his eyes bloodshot. “It’s good. You should always dress like that: you look like a drug dealer.”

“You’d know,” Liam retorted, though he wasn’t really offended. The room smelt strongly of the incense burning in the corner: he guessed it might be an (only partially successful) attempt to mask the lingering smell of pot.

“Why’re you here, anyway?” Zayn lay on his back, his eyes falling shut. He held the back of his hand over his eyes as though blocking out the light, even though it only came from a dim lamp by his bed. He was wearing a worn t-shirt that proclaimed the world should both ‘fuck off’ and ‘have a nice day’, which suited him, and his usual artfully ripped jeans. His feet were bare and his unstyled hair fell softly over his forehead. Liam preferred him dressed like this, it made him look more real somehow, less like a model who was just posing on an artificially created set before going back to his real life.

“Ms Kalil called me; I think she was worried about you.”

Zayn snorted dismissively. “I really fucking doubt it.”

Liam would concede that he had a point – Zayn did seem to be surrounded by people who were paid to fulfil specific roles and didn’t want to be bothered with his dramas. He should be able to include himself on that list, but if that were the case, he wouldn’t be standing there.

He scanned the room: it was relatively tidy (presumably thanks to having a housekeeper), large and mostly white with clean simple lines. It looked as though it was the generic product of an interior designer rather than Zayn’s own style. Though it was at least full of geeky memorabilia, which he wanted to explore. And the prayer mat carefully folded on top of a shelf reminded Liam of the complexity of Zayn’s life and identity.

There was a razor blade laying ominously on the bedside cabinet, and smudges of blood on the white sheet covering the mattress that Zayn had tried to cover as he lay down.

Absently pulling off his hat, he stuffed it into his coat pocket, before raising his hand to his face and rubbing the back of his fingers over his beard in a self-comforting gesture – the nerves sparking through him as he ruffled the short, neat bristles. He watched as small patches of blood seeped to the surface of the denim covering Zayn’s thighs – looking almost black against the artificially faded indigo – wondering the best way to handle this. Deciding to just be upfront, he asked, “You okay?”

“I’ll live.” Zayn still avoided looking at him.

“Will you let me take a look?”

“At what?” Zayn’s tone made a valiant attempt at obliviousness.

“At whatever the fuck it is you’ve done to yourself.” Liam’s tone was calm, but made it clear he wasn’t prepared to play any games.

After a moment Zayn nodded with a sigh, and let Liam take him into the stylish en-suite bathroom. Zayn pushed his jeans down and stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor but keeping his underwear on. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, while Liam rummaged around in the cabinet next to the sink to find a first aid kit. Having Zayn sitting there waiting for him half-naked, should have been sexual, but wasn’t at all somehow, the air laden with sadness and ghosts that he couldn’t even begin to understand.

Kneeling in front of the boy that he considered his responsibility, he wiped off the blood: some of it drying, and some still trickling down. Then he tended to the short, but worryingly deep cuts that littered the tops of his thighs, dressing some of them.

"I don't think you need stitches," he kept his voice calm and steady as he said it.

Zayn murmured, "I know what I'm doing," in reply, his voice tight and distant.

Liam wanted to tell him not to be ashamed, but he didn’t think anything he said would help. The scarred remnants of old wounds told him that Zayn had done this before, many times.

“Come on, we’re getting out of here,” he informed the sullen boy instead once he’d finished, pulling him to his feet.

“Where are you taking me?” Zayn asked as he followed Liam back into the other room. He seemed almost scared, and Liam wondered what places he’d been dragged to before when people were concerned about him.

“I’m just gonna feed you and take you for a drive: get you out of the house. You’re wallowing – I’ve been there.” He hoped he sounded more reassuring than he felt, as he grabbed a clean pair of jeans from the wardrobe and handed them over. He looked away as Zayn pulled them on, though he knew it was a little late for modesty.

He took Zayn down to the kitchen, watching closely as he picked critically at the snack he made him. Then he took Zayn out to his own car, turning down his offer of the Bentley.

He drove them to Hampstead Heath. Sometimes he went there at night when he couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer with his own thoughts driving him crazy. After he parked the car, he led Zayn up to the top of a hill that gave an impressive view down to the glittering lights of the city below, and the large expanse of sky above, Zayn asking questions along the way.

“Are you taking me cottaging?”

“No,” Liam replied with a weary sigh.

“Dogging?”

Liam tried to give him a look of chastisement, but he was so glad to see Zayn’s playful grin as he glanced over at him, that he gave up and replied, “You enjoy fucking with me _way_ too much.” He quickly added, “Don’t even say it!” as Zayn opened his mouth to no doubt point out that he would certainly _like_ to. “We’re just here to watch the sunset,” he said with finality.

“Sounds romantic.” Zayn sounded contemplative. Liam didn’t bother to answer, because at that moment, he realised it did.

They found a secluded patch of grass beneath an ancient looking tree – fortunately it had been a rare day without any rain, so the ground was dry. Sitting down, Zayn leaned back on his elbows, his legs stretched out in front of him, and slightly parted. Liam wondered how he managed to make everything look so sexual.

There were other couples dotted around, well out of earshot, and even a few families just leaving with children and dogs in tow. They had missed all but the last fleeting moments of the sun disappearing from view, but the dusk sky was on fire with dramatic reds and purples, and heavy clouds drifted across it like distant islands in a technicolour sea. It was an impressive sight: nature and the metropolis battling it out for which could hold their attention.

The air was growing chilly, and Zayn drew his knees up against his chest, holding his thin arms around himself as he shivered, still gazing out over the horizon. Silently reprimanding himself for not making sure Zayn would be warm enough, Liam took off his jacket – the leather battered and soft from years of wear – and placed it around Zayn’s shoulders, earning himself an amused smile.

“I like it when you act like my boyfriend.” Zayn seemed content for a fleeting moment as he said it.

“Shhh, babe.” Liam let himself indulge in the good-natured teasing.

Liam fished his cigarettes and lighter out of his surrendered jacket's pocket where it lay against Zayn’s hip, shook one out for himself, then offered one to Zayn (which he gratefully accepted), before lighting them both. Then they sat in companionable silence, smoking, and watching the distant world carry on without them, as the night drew in.

It seemed like a good opportunity to find out a few of the things he’d been wondering about, and get Zayn to open up. “So… your father isn’t around much? _…_ ” He had seen Mr Malik in passing, even been introduced to him once, but the few words they had spoken hadn’t given him more than a vague impression of someone tough and detached. He seemed to spend most of his time at his campaign office in the city, and had a flat near it for when he worked late, which he frequently did.

Zayn shrugged. “I’m a huge fucking disappointment to him.”

“Why?”

“I can’t imagine,” he replied with sardonic bitterness.

“You’re amazing.” Liam let himself smile as he said it, wishing Zayn would look at him.

“Don’t…” Zayn shook his head, his brow furrowed.

“You are,” he insisted quietly.

Zayn carried on, “He doesn’t even know most of the things I do, or he ignores it, dunno. My mum’s meant to be staying away because it’s safer, but I don’t think that’s the only reason. We all have our own lives now.”

“You’re from Yorkshire?” he asked, before explaining, “the accent.”

“Yeah: Bradford. Dad made a lot of money, doing… something in business, I never cared what. Then he decided he wanted to go into politics, so here we are.”

“You wish he hadn’t?”

Zayn paused before he answered, as if searching for the right words to express something that he couldn’t even explain to himself. “All that matters now is how things look. We’re meant to represent something, be a perfect British Pakistani family. My mum’s white, makes me half Irish, did you know that?” Liam shook his head as Zayn turned to look at him. “I’m meant to look like a good Muslim boy – but I don’t. And even if I did, everyone’d still just see a queer paki.” He turned away and took a shaky drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the dusk.

Liam felt a bit out of his depth. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just reached out and laid his hand reassuringly on Zayn’s shoulder.

“So… are you seeing anyone?” Zayn asked after a moment, changing the subject. As always, Liam found it hard to keep up with him.

“No. I had a girlfriend, but she couldn’t handle… what happened,” he gestured vaguely to the ruined skin on his cheek – though that was only a reminder of it, it wasn’t what mattered.

“Bitch.” Zayn seemed genuinely upset with a woman he’d never even met.

He shrugged, smiling at Zayn’s developing loyalty. “Don’t think too badly of her. It made us both realise we were more for appearances than anything. It was safe, easy. It was hard losing her, but a relief in the end. And no one could really handle me afterwards, it wasn’t just her. I was a mess for a while, flashbacks, and shit. I’d just stop in the middle of whatever I was doing and disappear into the past, it freaked people out.” He took a deep breath, audibly releasing it before he asked, “I guess I’d know by now if you were seeing anyone?”

“There’s never been anyone who mattered before.”

Liam suspected that Zayn was referring to him, but he didn’t take the bait.

“So… ever been with a man before?” Zayn questioned him further, not giving up.

Liam had known this question was coming, was surprised it had taken so long. He stayed silent as he pondered what to say, smoking and watching the lights below flicker as the city seemed to breathe and sigh, seemed _alive_.

“You haven’t, have you? I can be your first.” Zayn seemed disturbingly satisfied as he answered his own question.

He gave in and responded, “I’ve thought about it… It was just never the right time – or the right person.” He silently conceded to himself that there had probably been a bit more to it than that, before he added, “And we shouldn’t be talking about this – it’s more than my job’s worth.”

“I love your hair, it makes you look like a thug,” Zayn said quietly, not letting the subject drop, as he turned and ran his fingers over the short chestnut brown stubble at the side of Liam’s head where his hair was almost shaved – though it was left longer on top, straight and pushed back from his face.

“I’m not a thug.”

“I know. You’re more like a teddy bear, but you _look_ like a thug, and that _really_ fucking works for me. And you have beautiful eyes, like melted chocolate – I loved chocolate.”

“Zayn _…_ ” He warned, while worrying a little about the boy’s use of the past tense.

“And you’re so fucking _big_ , I just wanna climb you. My knight in tarnished armour, here to try and rescue me, even if you can’t.” He managed to sound both seductive and melancholy.

“ _Zayn_ ,” he said again, a pleading edge creeping into his voice.

“Fine,” but he rolled his eyes as he turned to look down at the city, taking a deep drag on his cigarette – then he shook his head and turned back to Liam, looking determined, “This is fucking pointless. I know you want me. Wanna go get in the back seat of your car and fool around? Or we could get a hotel room? Fuck it, you can just shag me over the bonnet in the car park if you want?”

Liam leant over, cradled the back of Zayn’s head in his hand, and kissed him on the forehead. “Come on beautiful, I’m taking you home – if you feel better now?”

Zayn closed his eyes, a blissful look on his face as though savouring the moment, before sighing resignedly as he nodded.

It was dark by the time they made it back to the car, lit only by streetlights and the sharp scythe of the waning crescent moon in the last gasps of its cycle.

~*~

He was worried that things would be awkward after that, but was relieved to find that it was actually easier; he seemed to have earned Zayn’s seldom given trust. He also got to dress casually now, at Zayn’s instruction, which seemed wiser to him anyway, blending in. Liam had only been working as his bodyguard for a couple of months, but already seeing Zayn was the highlight of each day – he brought a splash of vibrant colour to a drab world. It worried Liam how excited he always felt, going to work, especially as it was almost the election and he was unsure if he would be out of a job after that, and who would be guarding Zayn, or if anyone still would be.

Not that he didn’t take his role seriously. To others it may have looked as though he were just a very well-built escort, but the truth was he was always in a state of alert, always aware of where Zayn was and those around him. In a way that he didn’t really understand, his senses combined to become more than the sum of their parts, and all focused on his charge’s welfare.

So far he’d only needed to step in once to protect the boy from an actual threat: a man Liam’s own age, with more alcohol than sense coursing through him, had refused to take no for an answer and tried to force his attentions on Zayn at a club. It had almost been a relief to see some action, pulling the guy off him. Foolishly, he had tried to take Liam on, and blood was spilt on both sides before the they were all thrown out. Zayn had seemed to enjoy it a little too much, watching Liam defend his honour, then patching him up in the car.

But those kind of skirmishes weren’t his main concern. Shortly after he started the job, he had been taken aside and briefed by the police about the threats that had been made, although Zayn wasn’t considered a key target. He did sometimes worry whether he was enough for the job on his own, or if appearances were being prioritised over safety. He had requested that Arek hire at least one other person, so they could wait with the car, but again he was made to feel that he was there more to protect Mr Malik’s campaign from Zayn, than to protect Zayn from any potential dangers.

Tending to spend his days alone (if not his nights), Zayn had few regular appointments, the exception being his weekly visit to the local Muslim community centre. Liam had explained his role to them the first time he had accompanied Zayn there, and had been allowed to check the premises; he found them to be secure, as was necessary for an Islamic building in the current political climate. This particular Friday, as was customary, Liam sat on a hard plastic chair in the foyer by the main entrance. He listened to the sermon, though it was too quiet for him to make out what was being said. Then the chanting of the prayers – as it was in Arabic he didn’t understand the words, though he did find it beautiful, transporting him to a place that was far removed from his experience.

After a while, his mind wandering and restless, he thought of getting out his phone and catching up on his messages, but was too worried it would look disrespectful. He was still trying to learn the correct way to behave, still worried about making mistakes.

As he waited, he bounced his knee, the only outward sign of his discomfort at having to sit still and quiet for so long. He clasped his hands in his lap to resist biting his nails, and tried to look less out of place and conspicuous than he felt. Since the fire, his legs started to ache when he sat still for too long. But he always tried to not draw attention to his discomfort; he didn’t want anyone to think he wasn’t up to his job. So he silently endured it.

The session ended and the male worshippers filed out the door opposite him, talking amongst themselves. Then the female worshippers descended from the mezzanine above the main hall down a staircase at the side. He kept his eyes lowered as they all found their shoes and coats on the racks running along the wall opposite him. They all gradually went past him and back to their lives, leaving him alone in the oppressive silence.

As usual there was no sign of Zayn: at the instruction of his father he stayed behind afterwards, generally for at least an hour, to talk with the imam. Ostensibly it was to arrange events and help foster ties between his father’s campaign and the community. Though given his charge’s preoccupied, and sometimes distressed, state when they left (though he tried to hide it), Liam suspected it was also in part an attempt to confront Zayn about the way he was living. And perhaps more than that, perhaps also about who Zayn intrinsically was. Though Liam wasn’t sure how much any of them knew.

He didn’t think that anyone in Zayn’s life was aware of what he and Zayn were becoming to each other, despite his best efforts to steer Zayn away from himself and suppress his own feelings. So he doubted he was being discussed specifically. He was all too aware of the stifling implicit – and perhaps explicit – disapproval they would receive there if it were known. He felt a weight of guilt for being another source of alienation in Zayn’s life, another complication to be overcome or embraced.

Although he might tick ‘Christian’ on a form if asked, it had never appealed to him and he hadn’t thought about it in years. Though bits of it came back to him as he sat there, so near to the faithful, contemplating questions for which he had no answers. After he’d started to work with Zayn he had researched Islam – to learn how he himself should behave so as not to offend anyone – and he’d been surprised to find how many of the things that Zayn did were frowned upon. To him, Zayn seemed trapped between conflicting worlds, and not entirely accepted in any of them. He wasn’t quite sure how Zayn reconciled it. Whether he was incredibly accepting, conflicted, or in denial.

Eventually the boy appeared from a side room, looking contemplative as he usually did on these occasions. His jaw was tight and brow furrowed with a tension that Liam wanted to reach out and smooth away.

Instead he stood silently at the main entrance, stretching his legs and subtly kneading the base of his spine. He watched as Zayn pulled on his boots, kneeled down to tie his laces, then slipped on his jacket. He held the door open for Zayn and they made their way outside. Once they were out of sight, Zayn looked relieved as he paused to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and light one. The tip glowed with orange embers as he drew smoke into his lungs, then pushed it out through pursed lips, his eyes drifting shut in a brief moment of bliss.

Wanting to distract him further, Liam let himself talk, saying whatever came to mind without trying to weigh and monitor what he said, as he had learnt to – knowing it was mostly nonsense. He bumped his shoulder in a comradely gesture against Zayn’s as they walked, earning a grateful smile as Zayn looked up at him, his free hand caressing down Liam’s arm. He was still trying to adjust to the boy’s frequent affectionate touches, not something to which he was accustomed, but he found he missed it when they were apart.

It was a long walk from the building across to the far side of the car park. It had been almost full when they arrived. Zayn had been running late, as always, and they’d had to park in a tucked away corner, beside some skeletal trees: the leaves they had shed blew around in gusts of wind, and settled in soggy piles in the puddles of stagnating rainwater. Now only a few vehicles were left that probably belonged to the staff, or local residents taking advantage of the free parking. Passing an overflowing rubbish bin with a small collection of empty bottles leaned against it, Liam thought perhaps the locals were using that too. As Liam got out the keys for the pretty little classic car, Zayn flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under a thick sole.

Liam couldn’t have said what tipped him off – something just felt wrong. Perhaps the shadows under the car fell a little differently; perhaps it was the new scratch down the usually flawless obsidian sheen of the paint; combined with the pair of burly, rough looking men sitting in the front of a white van, in the opposite corner of the car park, also well away from the building. They were having an intense looking conversation, as one of them leant over the steering wheel and fiddled resolutely with his mobile phone. As the man glanced up, his eyes caught for a moment on Liam’s; they were too intent, too watchful, below the stubble prickling out on his pale, starkly shaved head.

Switching in a fraction of a second from smiling to deadly serious, the muscles in his cheeks relaxing as his jaw clenched, Liam firmly pulled the boy around until he was between Zayn and the strangers. With his hand on Zayn’s back pushing him ahead, he steered them the way they had come as he hissed commandingly, “We’re going back inside.”

Zayn looked at him in confusion for a brief moment as they hurried towards the building – then the whole world seemed to explode. The sound struck him like a physical impact, the air becoming an overwhelming force as it hit them from behind in a flash of heat and energy.

He flung himself against Zayn’s back, forcing him to the ground as sharp, searing pain ripped into him, littering his whole body from behind. It felt like a thousand red-hot shards of metal and glass had easily sliced through the flimsy barrier of his clothes, resolute in their determination to penetrate his flesh. They landed heavily on a grass verge, still damp from the last rainfall. Liam covered Zayn’s shocked body with his own, shielding him, his arms flying up protectively around the boy’s head, his hands flattening the impeccably styled hair. Burying his face against the boy’s exposed and vulnerable neck, Liam closed his eyes tight as the air filled with smoke and ash – the memory of the fire hitting him like a truck, choking him as much as the fumes – as debris rained down on them.

His ears rang with a sharp undulating tone, and when he opened his eyes his vision was obscured by the black mist enveloping them. He coughed, struggling to breathe, the air thick with noxious fumes, as his eyes watered. Time seemed frozen for a moment, then everything happened at once. His training kicked in and he dragged Zayn to his feet with him, as angry yelling reached him through the haze. Trying to pick out the voices and judge the direction they were coming from made even harder by the alarms manically blaring out from the few other cars, their motion sensors shocked into action.

As he pushed the boy forward, there was another quieter bang as something whizzed past his ear like an angry metallic bee, and he could just make out a cloud of sandy dust erupting from the wall far in front of them. For the first time, Liam wished it was legal for him to be armed, but he’d never even held a gun. It would have cost him extra and meant a trip overseas to have trained in firearms – it hadn’t seemed worth it at the time, though he was rapidly re-evaluating that decision.

 _“Fuck,”_ Liam could barely hear his own shocked voice as it was forced out of him. He pushed harder at Zayn, causing him to stumble forward, before ordering him to, “ _Run!”_ Lowering his head as he swung around, Liam charged towards the man firing at them, determined to keep himself between the gun and Zayn, as another bullet sped past him, grazing his shoulder, though he barely registered it. Thankfully the thick smoke clouding around them made accurate aiming impossible.

Their assailant however was framed by the flames, as what was left of the car behind him blazed white hot at the heart of the inferno, and orange flames with red tips reaching up into the sky in billows of black smoke.

Filled with an overwhelming rage, Liam slammed full force into him without stopping, sending them both sprawling to the ground. He felt the air forced out of the body beneath him, jarring it into shock for a moment. Liam took the opportunity to grab the man’s wrist and slam it repeatedly against the ground until he relinquished his hold and the gun clattered against the tarmac.

Liam finally caught a glimpse of him up close: he was young and had a look of arid desolation in his grey eyes, the colour of slate, as though the spark of life was already extinguished – only the hard, cold frenzy of his violently misdirected anger remaining. Even in the unnatural gloom, Liam could see a fading swastika emblazoned on his neck, and a target between his eyes, beckoning the inevitable. Saliva foamed at the corners of the man’s mouth, as he lashed out, rabid, seemingly unable to handle the one objective he had left slipping out of his grasp. Perhaps the object of his destructive desire didn’t matter, just that he had one.

The man was pushing his hand up against Liam’s throat, clawing at him to push him away. They both reached for the gun, only succeeding in pushing it further away, sending it skidding out of reach.

Giving up on retrieving his weapon, the man grabbed at Liam’s clothes with one hand to hold him still, as he pulled back his fist and brought it full force against Liam’s jaw. His teeth jarred and nausea swept over him with the taste of blood in his mouth as the man rolled them over, pushing himself on top of Liam. The back of his head hit the ground hard as he was held down. It made him feel powerless and humiliated to not be in control of his own body: that sense of confusion again, like in the fire. The loss of self, of autonomy, hit him harder than the physical pain.

As they scuffled on the ground, pain erupted in Liam’s side as the other man arrived on the scene, kicking his booted foot hard into Liam’s ribs, yelling something that Liam couldn’t make out over the fury of the flames and the louder roar in his own ears. Though given the gun pointing down at them he would guess the newcomer was trying to get the other man to move out of the way, so he could get a clear shot at Liam, then move on to Zayn – which he couldn’t let happen.

As he tried to keep the heavy body on top of him between himself and the threat of another bullet, there was a thudding crack above them. Liam looked up at the man in time to see green shards of glass showering a glittering veil over his face. Streams of blood then poured down it, flooding the newcomer’s eyes, and turning his shocked face a wet, dripping red. The disorientated man staggered away, his gun slipping from his hand and hitting the ground as though it were nothing – leaving Zayn standing there, a look of fury on his face and the jagged neck of the remains of a bottle gripped tightly in his hand.

The man on top of Liam was also momentarily distracted, and Liam took the opportunity to flip them over and mount another assault. He’d never hated anyone as much he did the struggling body he pinned to the ground. Straddling the man, he punched his face with all his considerable strength, putting his whole body into it, over and over. He felt the sick crack as the man’s nose caved under the impact of his fist, blood spurting out and hitting his own face. He didn’t stop, couldn’t, all he could think of was how he’d nearly lost Zayn.

“ _Liam!_ ” Zayn’s voice cut through the blood and fury, as he grabbed at Liam’s shoulders, pulling him forcibly back until they fell to the ground, away from the now still form, blood running from its mouth with a wet gurgling moan.

Zayn kept his arms around Liam, holding him still; the boy was shaking, his chest heaving against Liam’s bleeding back as he cradled him between his legs. The sounds of sirens reached Liam through the ringing in his ears, letting him relinquish control.

The police arrived with a screech of tires, fire engines not far behind, as people started to come running from the building. Liam spit bloody saliva onto the ground, as he leant over to retrieve the handgun laying next to them – left by the man that Zayn had dispatched. He carefully pulled it onto his lap – keeping his fingers away from the trigger – as he leant back against Zayn. Through the fog, he kept his eyes on the other gun – which had ended up precariously close to the burning wreck of the car – and the would-be assassin laid out in front of them, though he was no longer a threat. He made sure they were quickly in the hands of the police, as the area was cleared in case of secondary attacks, and ambulances arrived to tend to the wounded.

Before the doors closed on the ambulance taking himself and Zayn to the hospital, Liam watched as firefighters doused the flames. He felt a surreal twinge of being on the wrong side of the looking glass. It hit him: that wasn't his life anymore, and never would be again. His new life had felt like an interlude from reality, but he finally accepted it, letting his regrets burn away, leaving them behind in the smouldering car park. As they left, he thought only of his new role, and the person for whom he was responsible.

~*~

They were taken to the Royal London Hospital, and given the nature of what had happened, they were spared the exposure of casualty or the wards and given their own rooms. A section of the hospital was cordoned off for them, with guards placed at the entrances. Liam hadn’t even known there were private rooms in NHS hospitals. The shrapnel that had hit him, and embedded itself, was painstakingly removed – slid out from his invaded flesh. It was a long process, but the cuts weren’t deep, and once the local anaesthetic kicked in he felt no pain there. Though the old injury to his legs had lit pain along his nerve endings due to the jarring abuse of his body, and he was given more general pain relief for that. He didn’t need many stitches, though he knew it would still add to the fading scars he already had. His bruised and bloodied knuckles were tended to, the cuts from the blows to his face, and the skin left red and sore from the blast. The bullet had barely nicked him, skimming off a line of skin, and only required dressing. Zayn was being treated separately, but they promised Liam that he was doing well – they had to, or he would have gone to find him.

Eventually they finished and he called his family, who were frantically texting him – he and Zayn were apparently all over the news. He promised them that he was going to be fine, and that they didn’t need to come. Honestly, he didn’t need more people around to worry about. Then the police came into his room and interviewed him, telling him that both of their attackers were in custody; the second man hadn't gotten very far in his bloodied and dazed state. They assured him that what he and Zayn had done would be viewed as self-defence so no action would be taken against them. The initial assessment of the car bomb was that it was homemade, and triggered by one of the mobile phones they had seized. He got the impression from their preoccupied and irritated manner, that heads were going to roll for the failure in intelligence gathering that had led to this.

After they left, a pretty young nurse, with long dark hair swept back in a knot, came to check on him with a little too much interest; he supposed she must have heard whispers about the ‘injured hero’. Zayn poked his head into the room while she was fussing over Liam’s pillows, asking if he could come in. He looked tired, with a few cuts and bruises, but was otherwise unhurt. He scowled territorially at the poor nurse until she gave up and left; to her credit she closed the door discreetly behind her, affording them a modicum of privacy.

“They’ve given you the good drugs,” Zayn said, nodding towards the I.V. in Liam’s arm once they were alone. “I tried, but they’d only give me a few pills.”

“Good: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fully sober.”

Shrugging, Zayn rightly pointed out, “Life’s easier if you take the edge off.” He sat down gingerly on the bed. “Want me to stay?”

“No, you go home. Is your mum coming down?”

“She’s coming back tomorrow. I was on the phone ages calming her down.”

Liam nodded, relieved that Zayn had more support arriving. “Will you be okay?”

“Aren't I always?” Zayn seemed to be trying to lighten the mood, but it fell flat, both of them too aware that it wasn’t true. He carried on talking to fill the awkward silence that had fallen. “There’s a shitload of media out front, so they’re gonna sneak me out the back way. They’ve got the Specialist Protection Command watching me.” He inclined his head toward the door, “There’s two of them waiting, a man and a woman: they’re hot, and they’re armed.” But his grin was full of fondness and concern.

Raising an eyebrow Liam played along, glad to still have this. “Good. And don’t even think about it, sunshine.”

Then Zayn’s grin faded as he bit his lip and gave Liam a serious look. “Thank you, for –”

Shaking his head, Liam stopped him, “It’s okay, that’s what they pay me for, and you did as much as me.”

He thought Zayn looked a little disappointed at that, but everything was still hazy and he couldn’t be sure, as they finished up and Zayn left to be escorted back home.

The hospital wanted to keep him overnight for observation due to the possibility of concussion, but the needle in his arm was irritating and itching, and he just wanted to pull it out and go home. They released him once he told them he had family coming to care for him (even though they weren’t), and that a police car would be parked on his street in the unlikely event of revenge attacks (which was at least true).

Once back home, he took more painkillers, then carefully collapsed into bed – laying on his side – and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

~*~

Waking the next day, he tried to get out of bed as he normally would, and was hit by a wall of pain. A few attempts later, he managed to slowly rise, and took more painkillers. It was already early afternoon, and there were numerous texts, that he had managed to sleep through, waiting for his attention. He felt a little anxious as he read them, but nothing else had happened. He quickly sent back messages to his family and friends back home, telling them not to worry. There were a series of voicemails from reporters too: he wondered how they’d gotten his number as he deleted them.

He decided to call Zayn instead of replying by text – he needed to hear his voice. They only spoke briefly – things were crazy there, the press were gathered outside, and Zayn’s father was working from home out of concern for his son, which Liam took as a good sign. He had to convince Zayn that he didn’t need any help, just a couple of days to recover. Reassured that Zayn was as okay as he could be, Liam let him get back to the madness surrounding him.

He turned the TV back on, intending to leave the BBC’s twenty-four hour news channel quietly broadcasting in the corner, even when he was asleep, just in case something happened to Zayn and no one bothered to call him. Then he made himself something to eat, and went back to bed, only getting up again briefly when a district nurse arrived to change the dressings on his injuries.

~*~

The following morning he felt up to awkwardly pulling the dressings off his back, and taking a shower. It was a relief, feeling the warm water wash away the dust still clinging to his hair and the dried blood crusted around his healing wounds. Afterwards he awkwardly taped gauze over the gash on his shoulder, still feeling a twinge each time he moved his arm. He cautiously patted the smaller wounds dry and didn't bother tending to them – covering them only caused more irritation.

His parents and sisters kept checking on him via frequent calls, but he managed to talk his way out of skyping them, figuring they would only worry more if they saw how he looked. Zayn sent a few brief texts so Liam knew he was at least coping. The question of when Liam would be going back to work – and exactly what his role would be now that circumstances were more serious – had been left unresolved. He knew he wasn’t exactly at the top of his profession.

He microwaved some food and watched TV, starting to feel like himself again, whoever that was. The evening was wearing on and he was nursing a whisky and thinking about turning in for the night, when the shrill buzz of his intercom changed his plans.

Expecting it to be a reporter, he was ready to tell them to fuck off (though none had turned up at his home yet, more interested in Zayn and his father), but Zayn’s voice replied instead, asking to be let in.

He only had a couple of minutes to manically tidy as best he could, adrenalin over-riding the pain. Though, even if he had all the time in the world he couldn’t make his very modest three-room studio flat any more impressive. It was only a short drive away from the wide, tree-lined avenues where Zayn lived, but it was a different world.

After he quickly billowed his quilt up into the air like a collapsed sail – then folded it over at the foot of the bed once it settled back down – he caught sight of himself in the small mirror over his chest of drawers. The side of his jaw was bruised a deep purple: he looked tired, well worn, and older than his years. As he had avoided exposure to the sun since the fire and subsequent skin grafts (yet more memorials left on his flesh where the donor skin had been taken), his complexion was ashen, especially after the latest traumas inflicted on his put-upon body. Though he still, at least, looked strong. Battle scarred, but still fighting.

He looked down critically at his white t-shirt, the neck loose, and a smattering of holes around the seams; comfortable grey sweatpants with nothing underneath, the waistband barely clinging to his hips – still slender even with all the muscle he had worked so hard to rebuild; and bare feet. But it was too late to change.

When he answered the door, Zayn was flanked by his sparkly new Government Issue personal security. The boy had just been teasing about them being hot: they were nothing special. They told Zayn they would be waiting in the car and watching the building, and for him to call them as soon as he was ready to leave. They gave Liam disapproving looks as he ushered Zayn inside and closed the door, as though they suspected that Liam was overstepping his bounds, which he supposed he was.

Zayn was clean-shaven and looked especially well-dressed tonight, as though he had something special planned; perhaps he was going somewhere afterwards, Liam conjectured, a little disappointed. He had never been to Liam’s home before, and he looked around curiously as Liam offered him a drink and asked why he had come.

His eyes stopped wandering as he gave Liam his full and considerable attention.

“I’m here for you to fuck me.”

Liam paused for a moment, his usual response balanced precariously on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out, and yet… “It’s not true what I said at the hospital: I’d give my life to protect you, and not because it’s my job. Well, that too, but I’d do it anyway,” he said instead, because it had been plaguing him all day.

Zayn looked a little thrown for once by his answer. “I know.” He nodded as he said it, looking expectant and perhaps a little nervous as he drew his lower lip between the assisted white of his teeth and bit it absently.

Liam could compose a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t do this: and in the end, none of them mattered.

Zayn carried on talking determinedly as Liam came to his own realisation, “I, like, prepared myself before I Ieft. Fingered myself, and used my dildo, thinking about your dick – bet you’re bigger though. Then I plugged myself up. Wanted to make it easy for you, yeah? Keep myself ready. I sat in the car with them on the way here and imagined what they’d think if they knew I was wet and open. They’d probably wanna take turns after you finish – use me up. And I’d let –”

“Shut up,” Liam almost growled the words as he pulled the boy against him, his voice deep and betraying a surge of possessiveness that he was past trying to hide. This was another fire he found himself trapped in, one that he couldn’t escape this time, consuming him from the inside.

Zayn smiled, looking pleased with himself for getting Liam riled up. He wanted to wipe the smirk off the boy’s lips. Make him scream.

He’d told himself that if he got to kiss Zayn again, it would be different than last time, that he’d take it slow and gentle, make him feel special; but sometimes he just didn’t live up to his own expectations. Cupping the back of the boy’s head, he leant down, kissing him even harder and rougher than before. No hesitation now. Too desperate after everything that had happened. All he could think was: _I almost lost him, almost failed again, he was almost gone_ , as he held the slender body tight against his own.

He slid his hands down to cup the boy’s ass as they made out like teenagers – which he realised with a start Zayn still was, though only just. He felt as lean under Liam’s hands as he looked. There was no fat on him; he was strong, and highly strung, like a thoroughbred. He lifted Zayn up against him until they were level; the boy stood on his tiptoes, before giving up and wrapping his legs around Liam’s hips, his hands holding on tight to Liam’s broad shoulders as he moaned into his mouth.

As Liam easily walked them over to the bed, the boy sucked on his neck; Liam knew he’d be leaving a more pleasant bruise than his others, a better memory to have when he looked in the mirror. It wasn’t far to go – nothing separating the living room from where he slept but his own sense of order.

He deposited Zayn onto the bed, as gently as he could manage – anxious in his current state of heightened anticipation – having to untangle himself from the boy’s clinging limbs.

As he told Zayn to, “Get undressed,” he was surprised how deep his voice sounded. Then he rummaged in the chest of drawers, knowing he had condoms there somewhere; he had been a boy scout after all – always prepared – though he hadn’t used any since before the fire. It had changed him, inside and out, and he’d been self-conscious about the marks it had left on his body. There was at least a slightly messy, half-used tube of lube – that he regularly used alone – embarrassingly on the top, in reach of the bed.

He made a small noise of triumph as he finally found a full box, then pulled off the wrapper with his back to the boy getting naked in his bed; there was no need to advertise how little action he’d gotten lately.

When he turned back, Zayn was quickly pulling off the last of his expensive designer clothes, unconcerned as he threw them in a messy heap on the floor.

He was kneeling on the bed facing the headboard, and gazed unwaveringly at Liam as he bent over until he was on all fours, presenting himself to his captivated audience. As he reached one hand behind himself, his back arched down, a perfectly designed concave curve, his ribs the girders of an inverted bridge, the contours too obvious under his skin. Liam’s eyes travelled from the proud bird fanning out its tattooed feathers over the nape of his neck, then down the valley of his spine. It took Zayn a couple of attempts with his grasping fingers, before Liam saw the butt plug slowly emerging. He was not at all surprised that Zayn had been serious about it. The boy moaned – it seemed partly from the effort, partly for the effect, though his brow was furrowed and his shoulders tense. As his body stretched around it, the object seemed reluctant to leave, nestled snuggly where it was, before it gave in and slid all the way out to its tapered tip.

Once it was in view, it wasn’t particularly big, but it was still impressive. Zayn tossed it on top of his pile of clothes, seeming to have no interest in it now that its purpose was served. It landed with a dull, muffled thud, its black sheen glinting with a tantalising wetness. The performance seemed a heady mix of challenge and invitation – Liam wondered how the fuck he’d resisted so long, and how he’d gotten so lucky.

Zayn collapsed onto his back, his head on Liam’s thin, cheap pillow in its plain white polyester case, looking up at him expectantly.

He was just as beautiful as Liam had known he would be. Liam had always assumed that Zayn waxed his perfectly smooth chest – aptly tattooed with what looked like the wings of a fallen angel – but he had left the light, thin trail of hair down his stomach, and just trimmed his pubic hair. Perfectly groomed, of course. Liam felt ungainly in comparison, leaving everything natural. Zayn’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him, and a shade darker: it was already erect, almost against his stomach as Zayn ran his fingers lightly over it – sleek and cut, exposed and vulnerable.

He stood there mesmerised for a moment, feeling light-headed as his blood pooled south and settled, engorging his cock. It felt heavy between his legs as it pushed against the worn fabric of his trousers.

Until Zayn almost whined, “Hurry the fuck up, I’ve waited long enough.”

That broke the spell and got him moving, and he was quickly kneeling between Zayn’s legs, the condoms and lube dropped absently onto the mattress beside them.

Liam knew there was a softness still to his eyes – his lips: he tried not to appear too yearning and concerned, as he looked Zayn over assessingly. There were a litany of lines at the tops of his thighs, where the skin had been unceremoniously sliced open. The slightly raised marks were soft and deathly pale, as though the tender meat beneath had forced its way to the surface, trying to escape, then filmed over. The cuts that he had tended to himself were at least healing well, and joining the others as they told their part of Zayn’s story.

On his arm, where the ever-encroaching ink hadn’t yet reached, were deep round burns that looked like the angry reminders of cigarettes pushed into his abused skin. They were scabbed over – Liam didn’t ask about them, figuring they would deal with it another day. There was something terrifyingly fragile about Zayn, and quite possibly already broken.

Dragging his gaze away, Liam pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it indifferently onto the bed, then pushed his loose trousers down to his thighs, moving the waistband carefully over his dick which was straining against its confinement. He barely dare touch himself, didn’t dare risk embarrassing himself by coming before they even did anything. He was already hard and leaking: retracting his foreskin, he rubbed the clear liquid over his glans, it’d been a while but he knew he liked his dick wet. He gave himself a few quick strokes before rolling on a condom, then smoothing lube over it and coating his fingers. Zayn licked his lips as he watched, looking wanton, and decadent. He reached down to Zayn’s hole: it looked so inviting, waiting for him –

“I told you I’m fucking ready, just get on with it.” Zayn tried to bat his hand away as he said it.

But Liam still wanted to check, didn’t want to hurt him – never wanted to hurt him – and didn’t want to be yet another way for him to hurt himself. It felt so good, getting to touch Zayn there, _finally_. There was some resistance, then the boy’s body took his fingers hungrily, gripping them as Liam fucked into him. He didn’t need to do much, most of the work already done: he felt awed at how Zayn’s body relaxed and adjusted – just took him. Slick and silky smooth as he rocked his hips – so ready. Liam groaned: he’d never had anyone so desperate for it.

He didn’t realise he’d even said his thoughts out loud until he heard Zayn’s response, “Yeah – tell me what a slag I am – _fuck_ – I _need_ it.”

Swearing as he slid his fingers out, he pushed Zayn’s knees back, then leaned down over him, bracing himself on one hand as he guided his cock inside, distantly aware of the ache in his own abused thighs.

He felt guilty as he pushed into the boy, too quickly, too carelessly: but the entire time they had known each other had been one long act of foreplay and he couldn’t fucking wait any longer. The pressure had been building ceaselessly and now it gloried in its freedom to overflow. And Zayn didn’t care, was begging for it like one of the cheap whores in the derelict houses where he went to buy drugs – except that Zayn meant it. It shocked him that he would think such a thing, and he again wondered who he was now.

Seeming to read him – the boy always was too smart, too knowing – he caught his breath enough to whisper huskily like a demon on Liam’s shoulder, “Next time you’re gonna open me up with your tongue, yeah? I wanna feel it fucking me – then taste myself when you kiss me, with –”

He wasn’t going to last long listening to this filth; he forced his hand over the boy’s mouth, silencing him. All he could hear was his own ragged breathing as he started to thrust too hard, too fast. He felt like a blunt instrument, brutal, and part of him kept insisting that this wasn’t how it should be, but a wiser part of him told it to shut the fuck up, that this was the only way it could be.

Zayn’s mouth was hot and wet against Liam’s palm, his eyes smiling at Liam wickedly as he licked it, his breath rapid puffs of air, warm across the back of Liam’s hand. Liam pulled it away and wiped it on the sheet before pushing his hands under Zayn’s shoulders, leaning his head down, and fucking into him relentlessly. He could hear himself groaning rhythmically, too loudly, but he couldn’t stop.

Zayn almost sobbed as he arched his back up, shoving himself onto Liam’s dick, gasping as he held onto Liam’s back, digging his nails in, reopening the small wounds there – but Liam didn't care, if anything it just spurred him on.

Liam felt like he was stripped bare, as though the flesh was cleaved from his bones and he was nothing but exposed nerve endings and organs, just sensation and need, rutting like an animal, mouth open, brow creased, and body taut. As Zayn’s wrecked voice pleaded over and over for Liam to fuck him, as though he might still stop, as though he could.

Zayn’s dick was rubbing up against him, wet and insistent. He felt the boy try to reach between them to get himself off, but Liam didn’t want him to be distracted. Grabbing Zayn’s hand he forced it down to the mattress, threading their fingers together. Zayn whined in frustration, beyond words at last. Pushing his other hand down to Liam’s ass, he held on tight, seemingly trying to pull him in even closer, even harder, as if that were possible.

Liam became aware a moment too late of Zayn’s hand on his shoulder, pushing at him urgently as he said, “Liam, _fuck_ , I said stop, yeah?”

“Shit, I didn’t hurt you did I? I just –” Liam asked as he panicked and pulled away.

But Zayn just pushed Liam off him, before he turned over, shoving the pillows out of the way as he lay on his front and gasped out, “I like it better this way.”

Quickly, Liam pulled his trousers the rest of the way off while he had the chance, before pushing Zayn’s legs apart and kneeling back between them. He spread Zayn’s cheeks with his hands, his thumbs digging into the meagre flesh as he looked at the boy’s opening. It still gaped a little from being filled before puckering tight as it spasmed under his scrutiny.

“ _Liam_ ,” Zayn drawled his name, dragging it out as long as he could. “I feel empty.”

“Fuck.” Liam had never felt so needed. The well-used hole looked so good and he leaned forward and spat on it, watching the saliva dribble down towards Zayn’s balls. Zayn groaned again as Liam ran his tongue across the wet skin, then pushed it inside, just wanting a taste. The lube gave it an edge of bitterness, but he still wanted _more._ He couldn’t hold out any longer though: giving the beckoning hole a last kiss, he very quickly stroked more lube over his sheathed cock, then moved forward and lowered himself on top of the prone form beneath him. Guiding himself back inside, he groaned at how fucking good it felt, how in this position Zayn took more of him in. He held the willing form down as he started to thrust into him again, knowing how much Zayn enjoyed how strong Liam was, how easily he could overpower him.

As he lay against Zayn’s back, it hit him that only a few days ago they had been in this same position, when he protected the smaller body beneath him. He curled himself around Zayn, holding on and fucking into him with everything he had to give, burying his face against the defenceless neck, as he had then.

Gripping the sheet beneath them tightly, Zayn almost sobbed as Liam angled his thrusts downwards, long, deep, and fast.

Liam wanted so badly to hold out – to make Zayn come just from this, then fuck him through his orgasm – but he couldn’t hold on any longer, couldn’t stop now if he tried. It was too overwhelming and he felt himself coming apart. His body jerked helplessly as he spurted repeatedly into the condom, his movements slower, pushing in as deep as he could reach. A primal (though unfulfilled) need to leave his seed behind driving him, as he groaned too loudly, his bloodied, sweat slick back tense.

He thought he heard, “I love you, _jaan_ ,” murmured achingly gently against the mattress. But he didn’t think he could handle knowing for sure, not yet, or knowing the meaning of the endearment, though he could hazard a guess if he let himself.

He kept moving against the body underneath him, that was enclosing him, even after he had nothing left to give. His buried his face against the boy’s neck as he sucked and bit, leaving his own marks. He found himself whispering fractured words against Zayn’s skin, telling him what a good boy he was, how much he needed him: he couldn’t stop himself.

Once he could drag himself away, he reached down and carefully held onto the condom as he withdrew, before sliding it off, awkwardly knotting it, and, after a moment’s hesitation, tossing it to the floor rather than trying to stand. He didn’t think he could.

He moved to the side so that Zayn could turn over. Zayn looked up at him, his eyes hooded, lips red and bitten. His dick was blushed and dripping as he waited, not even touching himself – giving himself over.

There were so many things Liam wanted to say, but he was never good at finding the right words, and at that moment he couldn’t even speak. He leaned down instead, kissing Zayn: it was inelegant, but finally he managed to put all of the emotion into it that he had wanted to impart, as he moved back between Zayn’s easily parted thighs.

Pulling away from the boy’s lips, he worked his way down his body, learning the feel of the veins and tendons in his neck as it arched and strained to give Liam more access. He found out how sensitive the boy’s nipples were as he explored him with his mouth. He smiled as Zayn gave a surprised laugh, wriggling when Liam’s tongue dipped into his belly button (he made a mental note to find out where else the boy was ticklish). Though he grew more sombre as he reverently kissed the sacrilegious scars that desecrated the flesh of his thighs.

Leaning down further, he nosed at Zayn’s balls, breathing in the warm scent of sex. Then wrapping his large hand around the base of Zayn’s neglected dick, he stretched his lips around the head: it tasted good, salty and sweet. It oozed against his tongue as he probed the slit, savouring the boy’s increasingly overwhelmed excitement. He looked up as he did it, letting his innate cockiness show in his eyes, even though he was well aware of his own inexperience. But Zayn seemed more than satisfied with his efforts, as he gripped the sheet with one hand and swore, pushing his head back into the pillow and threading the fingers of his other hand through Liam’s hair, as he tried to thrust up.

Liam held the bucking hips down, as he took more of Zayn’s dick into his mouth – it was smaller than his own, but still a lot to take in. He gagged a little as his throat reacted to the perceived threat of being violated, pulling back to catch his breath, before trying again. There was no way he was going to be able to deepthroat him like he'd seen people do in porn. He struggled to regulate his breathing through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm and in control, to not let himself panic at the hint of suffocation. The short, quick puffs of his breath broke against Zayn’s skin. But it felt good, his mouth being filled. He felt powerful, in control of Zayn’s pleasure: the most vulnerable part of him at Liam’s mercy.

Leaving one hand pressed against the prominent ridge of Zayn’s hipbone to keep him still, he slid his mouth off the boy’s demanding cock for a moment. Zayn made his displeasure obvious as he shamelessly pleaded for it back, his babbled words barely comprehensible as he tried to push Liam down. Resisting, he turned his head and kissed Zayn’s wrist indulgently, before sucking on a couple of his own fingers, then working them back inside the boy, feeling how delicate he was – but still so eager to be filled. He leaned back down, taking Zayn into his mouth again, and tried to match the motion of his fingers with the rhythm of his lips and tongue as they moved over the straining shaft. His mouth watered, making it easier to slide over the heated flesh.

Before he closed his eyes in concentration, he saw Zayn raise himself to lean on his elbow and watch, the noises he was making sounded almost pained. He did his best to find Zayn’s sweet spot, curling his fingers a little and pushing up until he found it, stroking insistently, knowing by Zayn’s gasp that he had succeeded. It’s not like he hadn’t had anal sex before, just not with a man – but that was something else he’d read up on (and admittedly watched) after he met Zayn.

Liam savoured the feeling of rigid flesh pulsing and twitching on his tongue. He was just acquiring a taste for it, not trying to take it deep – when Zayn grabbed his hair, pulling him up. Zayn sounded surprised as he gasped sharply and came hard, a streak of white hitting Liam’s chin. He quickly let go of Zayn’s hip and slid his hand where his mouth had been, letting Zayn push up into his fist as the rest of his come splattered messily onto his flat abdomen, and coated Liam’s hand as he stroked him. He got his wish, fucking Zayn through it with his fingers, as the well-worked muscle contracted tightly around them.

Not giving a fuck how sticky he was, he carefully slid his fingers out and lay on top of Zayn, kissing the boy – who shuddered and clung to him – until he stilled. Liam’s cock and balls felt weighed down still, tender and well used – it felt so good.

He felt an acute awareness of the back of his mouth, the opening to his throat, that he wasn't used to: it felt filled, as though the head of Zayn’s cock still pressed where it had glanced against it. Each time he swallowed he remembered the feel and taste, the pressure, and he wondered how long that would last – hopefully for a long time.

As Zayn caught his breath, Liam wiped at his own eyes with his hand: if they were a little wet, if he was a little too choked up with the relief of his release, neither of them mentioned it. “Are you okay?” he asked the spent boy beneath him, half expecting a sarcastic reply, but Zayn’s smart mouth was silenced for once, as he nodded his head, busy licking his own come from where it was caught in the short, soft bristles of Liam’s beard.

Kneeling up with a groan, Liam grabbed his discarded t-shirt and wiped them both somewhat clean, before Zayn pushed him to the side and, settling himself so that he lay half on top of Liam, he pillowed his head on Liam’s still heaving chest. He seemed content – more so than Liam had ever seen him – his eyes closed, long dark lashes ghosting shadows over his finely sculpted cheekbones.

As they lay there, their heartbeats slowing to a steady rhythm, Zayn half-opened his eyes, and ran his fingers over the older, healed scar on Liam’s arm. He continued further down to map Liam’s tattoos – far fewer than Zayn’s, and more carefully planned. Then through the coarse hair that ran uninterrupted across Liam’s chest and in a line downwards over his abs and stomach. He lingered over the well-developed muscles as he explored, caressing, and seemingly memorising them. Liam felt like he was being read by touch, his skin a parchment with his soul embossed over it, as though in braille.

Suddenly Zayn’s eyes flew open fully and he sat up, momentarily distressed by the drying blood he’d noticed embedded under his fingernails from clawing at the wounds on Liam’s back, reopening them. Liam soon calmed him, pulling the boy back into his arms and telling him, “It doesn’t matter,” as he stroked his hand soothingly over the thankfully unharmed skin of Zayn’s own back and shoulders.

He tried not to think – not to think about what would happen next: whether two damaged people could fit their broken pieces together, or if they would just keep cutting themselves on the other’s sharp edges. He tried not to think about how he could feel every one of Zayn’s ribs beneath his taut skin, and how he just wanted to feed the boy up. How he wanted to do all the things Zayn had said – eat him out – eat him alive. How he just wanted to keep the boy, as if the world wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t have anything to say about it. Would Zayn really be strong enough to weather the inevitable storm – and if he were being honest, would he be strong enough himself? Because he knew – knew that sometimes want, need, even love, just wasn’t enough. He tried very hard not to think – he wondered if that ever worked.

He savoured this brief interlude for as long as he could, until reality caught up with him. “Baby?” he shook the boy gently; he was starting to drift off, and as much as Liam wanted to watch him sleep, he didn’t want to cause him more trouble by keeping him all night.

“Hmmm?”

“If you don’t call them soon, they’ll come to fetch you.”

“Shit – can’t I just stay?”

“Not tonight – people need to know where you are, to keep you safe.”

“I’m safest here.”

Liam realised that was probably true. Zayn faced a lot of dangers in the world, not least of which was Zayn himself. But Liam kissed him, slow and deep, before shooing him out of the warm, soft bed, and back into the harsh world.

The pain meds that he had unwisely mixed with alcohol were starting to catch up with him, and he drifted somewhere between consciousness and sleep as he half-listened to Zayn slipping into the bathroom to clean himself up. He rolled onto his side to alleviate the pressure against his back, sighing without opening his eyes as Zayn returned and wiped over the cuts there, that had been joined and exacerbated by his scratches. It stung a little but it felt nice, being taken care of in return.

There were the sounds of Zayn pulling his clothes back on, and calling down to let them know to come and meet him outside Liam’s door.

Sleepily, he smiled as Zayn kissed him on the cheek, his lips unhesitant as they brushed over the scarred flesh. Zayn's breath was warm against him, still leaning close as he said, “We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?” Liam hummed sleepily in agreement, then listened to Zayn letting himself out and the Yale lock clicking into place before he tumbled into a deep, exhausted slumber.

~*~

At some point he managed to stumble into the bathroom to take a piss, brush his teeth, wash off the remnants of flaking, dried semen left smeared on his torso, and swallow more painkillers. All done without any awareness, before he crawled back under his quilt and tumbled straight into a deep sleep – though if he dreamt, he couldn't remember it afterwards – until the insistent beeping of his phone woke him.

Groaning as he switched on the lamp by his bed, he grabbed his mobile from the nightstand, though he smiled softly to himself as memories of the previous evening flooded back to him, wiping out the residual pain. The clock at the bottom of the screen informed him with clinical indifference that it was still well before dawn. The text was from work, Arek’s number, asking him to come in right away. Struck by panic that something had happened to Zayn after he left, Liam quickly fired back a message, not even trying to correct his always-questionable spelling, asking if he was okay. The reply wasn’t very reassuring, just telling him again to come.

Pulling on his jeans and a t-shirt, then grabbing his leather jacket and keys, he was out the door in ten minutes and racing to Zayn’s house. Though he only dared go a little over the speed limit: it was still dark, the sky overhead jet black and littered with stars, the roads slick from the heavy rain during the night.

He was let through the gate, then for the first time met at the door by Arek, who angrily shoved a newspaper against his chest. He instinctively raised his hands to hold it as he staggered back, shocked at the reception.

Bracing himself, he looked at it: it was The _Daily Mail_ , and on the front page was a grainy photograph of himself, pushing Zayn against a wall as they kissed. He recognised the moment immediately: the still image looked down on the alleyway behind the nightclub the day they met. The headline above screamed, ‘BOMB BLAST HERO GETS EVEN CLOSER TO POLITICIAN’S TROUBLED SON’.

He felt sick as he skimmed the article. Details of Zayn’s private life were laid bare for the world to see: sex, drugs, and a suicide attempt and subsequent stay in a psychiatric unit that even he hadn't known about. And their relationship, made to sound sordid and clandestine, which perhaps it was, the latter at least. Then a statement from the nightclub claiming the security camera was to deter drug dealers, and they had no idea how the footage was released.

Saliva filled his mouth and he swallowed hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay. Painfully aware of every heartbeat, every breath. He crumpled the paper in his fist, following the irate figure down the corridor and into his office, asking, “Is Zayn okay?”

Without looking away from his packing, Arek replied, “No, he isn’t.” Then, glancing up and catching sight of Liam’s stricken face, he sighed, his anger visibly dissipating and weariness setting in. He pushed the box he was filling to the edge of his desk, sank into his chair, and gestured for Liam to sit down.

Liam shook his head, too full of nervous energy and the need to do something to relax, as he waited for Arek to tell him what had happened.

“We got the tip off last night: a reporter rang asking for quotes. Zayn walked into a shitstorm when he got home. You’re lucky you’ve missed his father; I’ve never seen him so angry. None of us went to bed.”

“Where’s Zayn?” Liam didn’t care about anything else.

Arek paused, then seemed to choose his words carefully as he said, “His father had been threatening for a while to send him away. I’ve managed to get him into a rehabilitation facility in America. He’s already left: we didn’t want him facing the press. That paper’s backing the opposition; they were desperate for a story like this. Zayn… isn’t strong enough to handle it. He’s hurt himself before: broke his hand once punching a mirror – did worse with the glass.”

Liam’s head was spinning, though a lot of things made more sense now.

“I arranged the flight; he’ll already be in the air. Mr Malik and his wife have gone to stay with family up North. This scandal may cost him the election. I’ve been fired for hiring you: apparently I should have known better,” he finished bitterly, looking accusingly at Liam.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, too numb to feel guilt yet. His chest felt tight, like his heart was constricting, and lead pouring heavily through his veins.

Arek shrugged. “I’m good at what I do – _usually_ – and in this line of work jobs are temporary; I’ll find another one.” His voice softened in a way that Liam had never heard from him before as he continued, “For what it’s worth, you were good for Zayn. But just let him go, he needs this. It’s been a long time coming. Don’t bother asking me where he is, you’re not in anyone’s good books right now. And there’s no point calling him, he left his phone here so the press can’t reach him. He isn’t allowed to have it in rehab anyway, or his laptop.”

Liam nodded, finally collapsing into a seat and loosening his grip on the newspaper, its ink staining his hand like a scarlet letter.

“And don’t worry, his father gave his word that he won’t cause you any problems as long as Zayn cooperates.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” he looked up, shocked, lines of tension deepening along his brow.

“We will, of course, no longer require your services.” If anything, it was reassuring to hear the affectation return to Arek’s speech as he pulled himself together. “And do _not_ speak to the media, you will only make matters worse.”

There was really nothing left to say, and Arek returned to his packing as though Liam wasn’t even there, silently dismissing him.

Somehow he managed to drive home, get himself a stiff drink, curl up on the sofa hugging a cushion, and wonder how the fuck everything can fall apart so quickly.

~*~

The media lost interest in him after a few days of camping outside his flat, staring at his closed curtains, and harassing his annoyed neighbours. He watched the election play out on TV, saw Zayn’s father lose by a slim margin, and his “gracious” concession speech; Liam wondered how much he was to blame. Then he let himself mope for a few weeks, thinking at first that every time the phone rang, and every knock at the door, would be his erstwhile charge – but it never was. He had a month’s grace until his wages stopped, and felt a little guilty for accepting it still, but it was easier to let the money just arrive and sit in his bank account, than to try and work out how to give it back.

He’d read a quote once, which said that you know you’re over someone when you stop looking them up on social media – in which case, he wasn’t over Zayn at all, because he kept searching for any sign of him, whenever his resolve wavered. But Zayn never posted anywhere. All of his social media fell eerily silent when he left; he must have been as cut off as Arek said he would be. There wasn’t even a salacious whisper of him in the gossip columns or tabloids. He seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth, and the loss was almost crippling to Liam. He knew that if he really tried, he could go and find him, but he didn’t let himself. Zayn knew where he was: if he wanted to contact him, he would. And if Liam deliberately stayed at the same address, and kept all of the same contact details so that he would be easy to find, should Zayn ever try… well, there was no one to judge him for it but himself. He was glad that Zayn had at least escaped the media, and he was afraid of making things worse, dredging everything up for him. So he waited.

He felt as though his life were in a perpetual state of limbo, once again not quite real. But still, it went on.

All the footage of their encounter in the alleyway ended up online. He tried to avoid it and not think about it, the invasion and exposure of their first moments of intimacy. He knew Zayn must hate it too. It turned out that a security guard at the club had enjoyed it so much he’d kept it, not even realising who he had been watching until they were all over the news after the attack. The press had entered into a bidding war for the footage. He felt like an unwilling soft-core porn star, though he supposed there is endless surveillance footage of us all, it just isn’t usually of interest to anyone.

The terrorist cell that targeted Zayn were all captured, and plead guilty, which thankfully negated the need for a trial, and for Zayn to be brought back to testify. They turned out to be a small, badly organised Neo Nazi group, but they had connections running throughout the fanatical underbelly of Europe. The security services seemed confident that Zayn was no longer at risk, now that the head had been cut off this particular snake, and his father’s political career was derailed.

Out of necessity he found another job: not personal security this time – he felt that he had ultimately failed at that. He had been boxing for years, and a local gym took him on. He gave some lessons, did some work as a personal trainer, and volunteered with at risk kids, which at least made him feel useful without anyone’s life being in his hands.

Seconds turned into minutes, which turned into hours, then days, weeks, months. Time never stops running, even when it should. But his wounds, more psychological than physical, were slowly healing, and he was working hard on becoming a better person, someone who was perhaps worth coming back to.

~*~

It was a bright morning, on the cusp of spring, and he was rushing around his flat getting ready for work, when his intercom buzzed. He answered it automatically, with a disinterested, “Hi?” barely even noticing he was doing it, a cup of coffee in his other hand, his eyes still searching the room for where he’d left his car keys.

There was a pause, before an achingly familiar voice replied, “Liam? It’s me – can I come up?”

He froze – “Yeah… yeah.” As he pressed the button to give Zayn access, he deposited his cup onto the sideboard so that he didn’t drop it, then unlocked the door, suddenly aware of each breath, each second as he waited.

He opened the door before Zayn even had chance to knock, and they just looked at each other, nervousness and joy waging a war for dominance within him. “Fuck – come in,” he said, realising he was just standing there like an idiot, leaving Zayn loitering in the hallway. He stepped out of the way and gestured for Zayn to enter, then shut the door behind him.

“You look amazing,” he blurted out once they were inside. Zayn had always been beautiful, but he looked even better now – healthier. He’d gained weight: he was still slim, but no longer verging on gaunt. He looked softer, his skin tanned, and his eyes bright and clear. The peroxide streak was gone, his hair a little shorter, more natural, but still styled artfully away from his face. He had a simple silver hoop through each ear lobe, and he’d acquired some new tattoos, peeking out intriguingly from the cuffs of his leather jacket. His style hadn’t changed much, perhaps just a little more mature and well cared for.

“I’m doing good.” Zayn nodded as he said it, trying to reassure them both it seemed, then added, “You look exactly how I remember.” He looked Liam over as he said it, just as he had the first time they met, but with more fondness now – though still with the same hunger, which Liam was relieved to detect under the reticence, as Zayn’s tongue snaked out to moisten his lips.

“Is that a good thing?” He wasn’t sure how Zayn would feel about him now he was more in control and had reflected on all that had happened.

“Yeah, really fucking good.” Zayn smiled, though it faded as he added, “I’m sorry – sorry that I didn’t get in touch, I –”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted – and it was; Zayn was here now, that’s all that mattered. “I’m sorry too.”

Zayn shook his head, “Don’t be – you helped me more than anyone. I don’t regret it. I thought about you every day – but like, I had to get my shit together.” He looked so nervous – Liam wanted to reach out to him, reassure him; he could only imagine what Zayn had been through since he left. But he didn’t want to move too fast and scare him away, so he marshalled his sometimes-inadequate self-control and waited, though he was bursting with questions about what Zayn had been doing and how things were with his family.

Zayn rubbed at his lower lip with the side of his index finger, comforting himself, before plunging on. “I know we have a lot to catch up on – I don’t even know if you’re seeing anyone?”

He shook his head; there hadn’t been anyone else.

“Good – that’s good…” He nodded as he said it, looking relieved. “Can I take you out for dinner tonight? We can talk, yeah?”

No one else had ever looked at Liam with the focus Zayn had, and still did: the need that radiated from him – and it all came flooding back, like they’d never been apart. He sighed as relief coursed through him. “Yeah, _fuck_ yeah: anything.”

Zayn grinned, finally, his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth in barely restrained excitement. As Liam smiled back, the corners of his eyes creasing until they almost shut, he felt a tension leave him that he hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying all this time.

“I’ve only just got back – but I’ve got my own place, and I’m starting uni soon… I wanted to have something better to offer this time.” There was a yearning warmth in Zayn’s eyes and a promise of resolution in his voice – as though, having completed a long, hard journey, he had finally arrived.

At last Liam let himself lay his hand against the boy’s – the young man’s – cheek. Zayn closed his eyes and leant into it, looking more content than he ever did before, some of his jagged edges softened. Liam wanted to tell him that he was always enough – but there would be time for that later.

They made plans for that evening, then Liam went to work like it was any other day, even though it wasn’t. Once again it struck him how quickly everything can change. Hope, expectation, trepidation, an infinite number of emotions and possibilities were alight within him and he burned bright with a renewed vigour. They hadn’t gotten their happy ending yet, but Liam gladly settled for a new beginning.

**_ The end _ **

**Author's Note:**

> "Jaan" means my life/my love in Urdu.
> 
> "Cottaging" is a British English slang term referring to anonymous sex between men in a public toilet, or cruising for sexual partners with the intention of having sex elsewhere.
> 
> "Dogging" is a British English slang term for engaging in sexual acts in a public or semi-public place or watching others doing so. All genders.
> 
> "Slag" is an offensive British English slang term for a promiscuous person.


End file.
